


Things Unseen

by triumphforks



Category: Inazuma Eleven, Inazuma Eleven: Orion no Kokuin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-01 08:08:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17240594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triumphforks/pseuds/triumphforks
Summary: A medieval fantasy AU inspired by the character roles from the Werewolf/Jinro Game cards from the Orion ending.





	1. Chapter 1

The stars had told him to watch out for a change. And while getting such a message from the heavens might be a shock to most, for the Fortuneteller it was just another day. The stars were always talking, and scarce half of it was worth listening to. So he had gone about his day as normal, as he had the day before, and the day before that as well, not giving the celestial gossip a second thought.

Most of it was spent putting his home to order. It was a small enough place, tucked away just at the edge of the forest and on the very furthest outskirts of the village, but it was as hard to manage as he imagined a castle would be. There was barely a surface inside that wasn’t crowded - scattered charms that had been in order only the night before, having gone wandering of their own accord; scraps of fabric, feathers, all kinds of things that shone and sparkled and caught the eyes of the spirits of the small spaces, who loved nothing more than to arrange his things to their own liking; and, of course, the general detritus of one who lived alone, with no one to judge the mess made when they were otherwise occupied, be it with books or stars or whatever problems the villagers brought to him that day.

Today, at least, there seemed to be no such problems. And he had made some headway with putting things to order, even resisting the temptation to stop and delve in to the books he picked up along the way.  _ You own them. They’re your books! They won’t go anywhere,  _ he’d assured himself, although there was always that lingering fear that they might actually take to wandering. 

He decided to put a pause to his efforts around noon, figuring it was time to reward himself with some food and rest. It was just as he put the last book in its place that he felt a shadow pass. A cold, ominous, primal kind of thing - it had gone past his window, he’d sensed, although he was too slow to look to see the mass itself. He knew what it was. Not a normal shadow, caused by cloud over the sun, but one that crept along the earth, hunting warmth, hunting life, a shadow so relentless that its remnants were still trying to force their way through the cracks between wall and window.  _ Good luck with that,  _ he thought, before turning his attention back to his own troubles. Some beast of the forest was on its way to die, he figured, and the shadow had come to chase it. That was even less of his concern than the gossip of the stars. 

There was a knock on his door, sharp and deliberate.

“Yes?” He called, and soon after the door opened. He tensed - black smoke spilled in, tendrils reaching, almost as if searching. But they didn’t stray far, slinking back to their main mass when they couldn’t find anything better than whatever poor soul they had already attached to.

“I was told a Fortuneteller lived here?” He was distracted by the shadow, but the voice - confident, clear - caught his attention, and drew his eye from the dark cloud to its owner. A man, about his own age, he figured; dressed in the rough of a hunter, and judging by the bow and the rabbits slung across his shoulder, one who had only recently finished his hunt. He had the feel of a fire about him, but one soft, a radiating warmth like the last coals of the hearth.

“That’s me,” he said, doing his best to ignore the shadow, the dark cloud, clinging to the Hunter’s shoulers like it was his cloak. 

“I’d like a fortune, if it pleases you. I don’t have coin, but I saved the fattest of the catch.” He tugged at the rabbits slung across his shoulder and smiled. A smile - a spark that danced among the coals, and completely distracted from the surrounding darkness. He faltered, unable to immediately answer, but managed to find his voice before the Hunter noticed.

“I don’t eat game,” he said. “Nothing that reeks so strongly of death.” The Hunter frowned, almost pouting, and for some reason he found the expression just as distracting as the smile. He held back a laugh. “You’ve misjudged my price, hunter, but you’re welcome to try again.” The man brightened at that, and gave him another smile.

“Then I will.” The Hunter nodded in farewell and made to leave, but paused, stopping in the doorway and turning to look back. “I do have one question, if the answer comes without a price. Why do you live all the way out here, on your own? I’ve been to many villages, and this one seems kinder than most. No one seemed to fear you when they told me how to find this place. Isn’t it lonely out here?”

It was his turn to smile, although his was nowhere near as bright. Rather, it had a mellow sort of sadness to it. There was something interesting about this stranger - one who would ask something like that so outright, and who just by the way he carried himself made it clear that the question came from concern and not mockery. It was no wonder the shadow had chosen his shoulders to leer over.

“They might not fear me, but there are things for them to fear here all the same.” He couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to that dark cloud, still clinging to the Huntsman. It wasn’t anywhere near as dark as he had first thought.  _ The Death is the game,  _ he thought.  _ A hunter makes his livelihood by killing. It’s feeding on the leftovers, that’s all.  _ “It does get lonely, but I have the stars, and all kinds of things normal eyes can’t see. But it is always good to have a human visitor.” He made his way to the door, reaching up to take hold of its edge close to where the Hunter held it with his own hand. “So don’t take too long in coming back.” The Hunter leaned in, smiling. 

“When I have your price?”

He grinned back.

“If you can guess it.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hunter returns in search of his fortune.

Weeks passed, and he thought little of the encounter. So many curious wanderers came through his door, just for the novelty of it - and so few of them ever made their way back. It was the villagers who were his regular clientele, and it was their routine, their sedentary regularity, that was best suited to the fortunes he could tell. So he was shocked when this one  _ did  _ return, unannounced and unexpected, arriving just as he himself was returning from a visit to the village proper. 

“Can I help you, stranger?” He called out lightly. The Hunter was at his door, peering in to the darkened windows, and much to his surprise, didn’t jump at the sudden noise. 

“I feared I’d imagined you,” he said as he turned, a touch of relief to his voice. “Or that you were one of those mages who disappears when you try and find them a second time.”   
He laughed at that.

“Not a mage, just a fortune teller. And just in the village.” He nudged his way past, hand waving over the door handle, and the small-spirit who held it shut released it and scuttled back away to its favoured small-space. He continued inside, indicating to the Hunter that he should do the same.

_ He smells like the forest,  _ he thought. He stole a look, as the Hunter shrugged off his cloak and hung it by the door.  _ No rabbits today. _ He had a pack, tightly wound, instead, and - he frowned - that shadow-cloud was still following him, still clinging to his shoulders.  _ Hunters live in-step with death,  _ he reassured himself.  _ That’s all it is.  _

“You brought me something?” He said aloud, busying himself with getting a kettle on the hearth and shaking away the bad thoughts. 

“I did.” The hunter made his way to a nearby table and unravelled his pack. The smell of the woods grew stronger, biting, sharp, fresh. “I noticed you had all sorts of herbs and plants around, so while I travelled I kept an eye out for anything that might be useful.” With the kettle now sorted he made his own way to the table, examining the pack and its contents as the Hunter spoke. He ran his fingers over a stem here, a branch there, feeling the leaves between his fingers, taking in the cocktail of scents.

“You know all these?” He didn’t try to hide his surprise.

“Of course. I’m a hunter, not an idiot.”

He stifled a laugh. He knew a different hunter who could qualify for both. But he didn’t share that, instead keeping his eyes down, sorting through the gathered greenery and trying his hardest to ignore the soft touch of dark smoke that reached for him.

“...Well?” There was an eagerness, and a worry, to the Huntsman’s voice that told him he’d been quiet too long. 

“I’ll take this one,” he said finally, plucking a bundle of branches dotted with short leaves and small blue flowers from under where the Hunter’s own hand was resting. Their fingers brushed. He looked up, with a teasing smile. “But it’s not enough for a fortune.” 

The hunter didn’t seem annoyed - rather, amused. “What does it get me?”

“Tea.” He tugged the flowers away and went to put them with the rest of his collection. As he did so his eyes chanced upon a pair of dark-tinted glasses, and after the briefest of hesitations, picked them up. A moment more and he slid them on, and the colours of the world changed from bright to muted with a dark tint. The kettle whistled - boiled - and he took it over to the table, now cleared of the pack and all its fragrant herbs. 

“What reason for the glasses?” He didn’t need to be a Fortune Teller to have seen that question coming. His brow furrowed, and started to explain while setting the tea in order.

“I can see things. Things that ordinary people - or someone who isn’t trained - can’t see. You know… do you ever feel a sudden chill? Or notice something has moved from where you swear you left it? Or maybe, when you’re in the deep woods, you feel suddenly like you’re not alone, but when you turn to look all you find is empty air.” He glanced up, to see the Hunter nodding. “Well, I can see the things that make those feelings. Some are small. Harmless. Others are more… distracting. This glass-” he sat now, and tapped the rim of the glasses “-helps filter all of it out. It lets me see the world as you do.” He finished. It had been a long time since he’d needed to wear the glasses; not since his training had he been so overwhelmed by the presence of the things others had the fortune of not seeing. He watched the Hunter carefully for a reaction. And for the second time, he found himself surprised - the man seemed to be taking it in, thinking the words over for himself. Others would not even try to understand, he knew, and simply accept that some things were strange, with strange explanations. But the Hunter had the look of someone who was absorbing, trying to understand, and not simply listening. 

_ Don’t get too fond,  _ he warned himself.  _ Just because you can’t see the shadow doesn’t mean it’s gone.  _

“...It’s a shame,” the Hunter said eventually, leaning back in his seat. “They hide your eyes. And I liked looking at them - they’re beautiful.”   
It was all he could do to not choke on his tea. How could he say something like that so casually?

“Is that what you say to the ladies in their castles, not-idiot hunter?” His tone didn’t betray his nerves - or so he hoped.

“Depends on the lady. Depends on the castle, too.” The Hunter shrugged, and shot him a smile. “Some are more welcoming than others.”   
“You sound experienced.”   
“Everyone wants to eat, and not everyone can hunt. Not like I can.”  _ Modest,  _ he thought. But that was part of the charm. “There’s more than one old Lord who hasn’t the strength or the household to get the food he’s used to, but he wants it all the same.”

“So you’ve dined with great Lords?” He didn’t hide his curiosity. He might hear stories from the stars, and have a great many wanderers breeze through his home, but he was still just a small fortune teller attached to a small, nameless village.

“Never the Lords themselves,” said the Hunter, resting his cup and leaning in over the table. “But their households, sometimes. And even if I don’t dine with them, I’ve seen a great many households, and a great many people.” He paused to drink, and continued. “You soon learn to read what people want. The ladies - they can be easy enough to charm. Most want for adventure, and what is more fitting for their fantasies than some nameless woodsman?” The Hunter looked at him then, and shot him a sly smile. He pretended not to notice. “The knights - those are harder. There are some that live by their pride, and their honour, and those are harmless enough, even if they won’t give us common folk a second look. But there are others who live to draw blood, and they can be dangerous if you happen to give them the wrong look. And then there’s the common guards, the cooks, the castellans…” he trailed off, as though catching himself before he started to bore. “Anyway, once you know the kind of man someone is, the easier it is to know what they want. And there are only so many different kinds of men.” Another pause. Another drink. The Hunter met his eyes as he did so, striking eyes, and it was almost as if he was trying to see in to his soul. “But I’ve never met a man like you. I can’t imagine what you would want.”

He broke the eye contact, looking down at his cup, and couldn’t stop his own weak smile.

“I’m not so unknowable.”   
“Then please, the price for a fortune.” He looked up again, and found the Hunter still looking at him, mischievous. 

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he retorted. The Huntsman laughed, before reaching over to pour another cup. He took a sip himself, smiling to himself, eyes watching the Hunter’s every movement, tracing every shape, every line. Taking it all in, committing it to memory. And for the first time, he wished he could be more than a simple village fortune teller. If he was someone more... he might not have to hide from reality behind dark-tinted glass. He might be able to stop this moment, as it was now, soft and close and comfortable. So many wanderers had sat here, in his home, and there were more than a few he had wished would just  _ leave _ . But this one he almost wanted to beg to stay. He was never truly alone in his home, as empty as it might seem to the untrained eye, but the small spirits rarely made for good conversationalists. 

He feared that, once the Hunter left, there would be a silence he wouldn’t know how to fill.

He feared he was beginning to understand what the villagers spoke of, when they asked if he ever felt alone. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fortuneteller goes to people-watch, but finds something more.

Every month the village held a market, opening up the large town square to the local farmers to sell their produce. He always made a point to go. It was a chance for him to actually appear as part of the village, taking part the same as any of the others - as a  _ person _ and not an almost-stranger, sequestered off in that strange, small little house by the woods. He had been thinking of that a lot lately; thinking in a way that he hadn’t before. He had considered himself content with how things were. People came to see him when they had the need, and they were always kind when he did venture in to the village. But now he had started to feel the distance between himself and other people, and how nice it would be, to have something  _ more _ . 

The cause? Well, he’d found something he couldn’t have. And in wanting it he had never felt so  _ intensely,  _ which thrilled as much as it terrified, and it had made him wonder what else in life he could be missing.

He’d paid special attention to the people, this market. Wearing his dark-tinted glasses, to hide away all the distractions of spirits and omens of the future, he’d tried to look past the shallow surface of cordiality, tried to guess what it was hiding beneath. What made  _ them  _ stay awake and thinking in to the night? He must have been acting strange, by the regular standards, because more than one villager asked if he was feeling well - and he hurriedly had to reassure them he was fine. It was after the third time this happened that he decided perhaps it was best to head home, and do his thinking there... when the wind carried to him a familiar voice. 

“Where is he?”, he asked the breeze softly, and it pushed him along gently in response, guiding his path until he could see the way for himself. And it wasn’t long before he did; just around the corner, through a path between two houses, opening in to a smaller square set aside from the main village centre. There was a well, and a small group of children, all circled around and listening eagerly to the Hunter’s every word.

He waited to the side, unable to help a smile. What a scene! It was almost straight from a story itself. He was too far away to hear properly, but the wind brought him snippets - talk of a knight, and a maiden, and a dragon, the perfect components to fuel any village child’s fantasies. At one point, near what he figured was the climax, the Hunter chanced to look his way, and by luck they made eye contact. He flashed a smile, and after, the story seemed to go much faster. The children didn’t mind, still hanging on every word, although once through the gasps and cheers at the end (the knight slaying the dragon, he had no doubt), they did loudly complain for more. The Hunter simply smiled, and waved them back to their parents, or their duties, as he picked up the things he had set aside (his cloak, and bow, and… a basket?) and made to leave, promising more for next time. 

“I almost feel the villain, for dragging you away,” he joked as the Hunter drew close enough for conversation. He smiled. He felt his heart stop.

“Maybe that will be the next story.” There was such a lightness to his voice, and a brightness to his smile, that it was no wonder the children had been enthralled. He could even feel himself falling (rather, further than he already had), in spite of all the time he’d spent trying to tell himself it would be a mistake. 

“What’s that for?” he asked, indicating to the basket, partly from curiosity and partly to get his mind focused on something other than folly.

“Actually, it’s for you.” The Hunter pulled aside the basket’s cover to reveal a significant amount of pastries, in seemingly every style and flavour. “I was speaking to the baker, about how I still hadn’t found your price. And they told me you always gave a fortune for a pastry.” 

“Is that so?” He kept his voice measured, if only to hide the joy he felt inside. “Although it seems to me that this is paid by the Baker, and not by you.” His voice was light, teasing, and he dug through the pastries as he spoke, in search of his favourite. He pulled out a jam tart and took a bite, before starting off in the direction of his home. The Hunter followed, but not without his complaints.

“Haven’t you had enough fun with your riddles?”

“Not just yet,” he replied in between bites. “Why do you want a fortune, anyway? Surely a man like you knows his luck is what he makes of it.” It had been on his mind from the start - a small concern, compared to others much more… confronting, but one he had all the same. He mostly dealt with the villagers, reading fortunes for seasonal love, or to forecast the best time for harvest; small, provincial things. It was rare that someone who lived so unpredictably would be so persistent in their hunt for a prediction. 

The Hunter thought a moment before replying. 

“Maybe it’s just old superstition,” he replied finally, with a strange tone of voice. He looked over, surprised - he hadn’t thought it a difficult question, but the Hunter seemed to be giving it serious thought, his expression all pondering and thoughtful. “Those children, before… I have a sister, and she was their age when I left home.” He paused a moment, as though considering whether this was really a story he should be telling, before going on. “She wasn’t well. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. But there was… an issue, and I couldn’t stay. So before I left she made me promise to keep an eye out for a sign that would tell me it’s time to come home. But I was young when I left, too. How was I meant to know what a sign looked like? So I made a point to find the people who  _ did _ know what to look for, wherever I went.” The Hunter fell quiet. The story was a sad one, but there was something to the way he told it… a lightness in his voice, that made it more nostalgic than melancholy.

By now he had finished his tart, though the sweetness of it lingered.  _ Almost the same,  _ he thought. A memory of something good, made all the stronger by its absence. He took a moment to gather his own thoughts; it seemed rude to just charge on ahead. But eventually, he spoke.

“So why keep coming back to me?” He looked at the Hunter, curious as to what else was hiding beneath that bittersweet expression. 

“Because you’re interesting,” he replied, looking over himself with a smile. Something about that smile caught him - he felt it in his heart, trapped - and he hurriedly looked away. 

“That’s how you live, then? Chasing one fortune after the next? Berating what you find interesting, until some magic tells you to go home?” He tried to keep his own voice light, but he knew it was rushed, words spilling out in an attempt to distract from… from everything else. 

“I go where I think I’m needed, on advice from people much smarter than me.” The path was winding to its end. They followed it, through his gate and his garden all the way up to his front door. “... I don’t think I’ve been berating you,” said the Hunter, coming to a stop just in front of the door. He could hear the rustling of the nearby forest, and the small creatures that made their home in his garden. He could sense the stars watching, even though it was still daytime, and impossible for him to watch them back. And maybe that was why - knowing exactly how many eyes were on them - he hesitated at the Hunter’s touch. 

_ Don’t do this,  _ he tried to warn himself. But it came too weak, too late, because he had been well and truly snared. The Hunter had him by the slightest touch, hand lingering on his cheek, almost as if daring him to pull away. And when he didn’t, well, the Hunter moved in closer, pulling him in and catching him with a kiss - a kiss which, too, lingered, and that he had no hope of escaping. 

When they broke apart he could taste a sweetness. But with it something bitter, something darker, and far less palatable. This close, his glasses did nothing. His forced ignorance was torn down as that ever-present shadow snuck behind the lenses, and made him look at reality. _ No. _

“Don’t go hunting,” he said, barely above a whisper. The Hunter looked at him, confused.

“What?” 

“Stay here,” he said, more audibly. “Stay with me.” Was his voice frantic? He couldn’t tell, but it was how he felt. The shadow, now touching his own face, now clawing at his hair, meant darkness, meant pain, meant death. He knew this. And he knew in the forest, right by his door, there were a thousand creatures and a thousand shadows just like it. He closed his eyes (not hiding, he told himself, just resting) and leaned in to the Huntsman’s shoulder. If he could keep him away from that…

The Hunter smelled of the hearth, warm, with the comfort of a low-burning fire.  _ Stay like this,  _ he thought.  _ Let him stay with me, like this.  _

The Hunter’s arms wrapped around him, and pulled him snug. 

“No fortune, but you’d let me stay?” His voice was barely above a whisper but it was immediate, whispered inches from his ear. He felt a thrill, one that pushed back against the chilling touch of the dark shadow.

“You shouldn’t question a fortune teller,” he replied, pushing away slightly from the embrace and reaching out to pull the Hunter’s face closer to his. To pull him in and catch him with his own kiss.

He could still hear the stars chattering. The garden, strangely, was silent. Part of him knew he was making a mistake. But a far greater part didn’t care.

 

\--

 

That night he went about his work with a giddy lightness. He worked faster than usual, and the small spirits that helped him found they weren’t getting scolded anywhere near as often. The Hunter would be back in the morning - he had promises in the village to keep, he had said, and being a man of honour, he wasn’t about to just abandon them. 

The lightness had simmered down to something more manageable by the time he finished his work, and put his space back in to order. The night had truly come in to its own by then - a look out his window showed it bright, brilliant, illuminated by the heavy full moon above. The only place still draped in darkness was the forest, as it always was, the heavy branches of its trees obscuring even the brightest of lights. 

It was as he headed to bed that he heard the first of the howls. Noises in the night - noises of the dark - were not unusual. But something about those howls made his spine shiver, and the stars didn’t like it any better. 

_ It’s just the forest,  _ he told himself,  _ and the forest is always cold.  _ The trees hid their own demons. So long as humans stayed out, they would be fine. And the Hunter wouldn’t be going in there anymore. He would make sure of it.


End file.
